


Two Years

by Leslie123S



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Final Problem, Sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie123S/pseuds/Leslie123S
Summary: Two years. He made John endure this hell for two years. Today John has made him live this life for exactly the same amount of time.---------The somehow inevitable happens and John is shot during a case.





	Two Years

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know why I do this to myself...
> 
> Point out mistakes for me! English is not my first language.  
> Feedback appreciated.

The moment right after was silent. He couldn’t hear a thing, not even the blood rushing in his ears. His body had already understood what his mind could not. Why wouldn’t John just stand up? It shouldn’t be so difficult to get up after stumbling to the ground. But he didn’t stumble. He fell – right on his face, bullet in the back of his head. Sherlock couldn’t move. He didn’t understand – he didn’t want to understand. The mind he was so proud of – reduced to silence.

After so many nightmares playing out this particular following scene he has memorized it quite well. After a minute of nothingness he was finally released from his shock to run to his fallen friend. Some part of his mind had already deduced, that John would have been dead the moment the bullet hit his head, but he couldn’t believe it. All these facts – the sound of the gunshot still echoing in his ears, the blood running through his fingers as he cradled the doctor’s head in his hands, the missing pulse, the criminal’s footsteps echoing in the distance as he flees through the allies – and he still couldn’t believe it. Why wouldn’t he just get up, damn it!

That’s how Lestrade found him. Hands and clothes bloody, some blood even drying in his hair, because Sherlock just didn’t seem to register it. Of course the DI was shocked; he had known John for so many years now that it was only natural. But he also knew that he couldn’t grieve now. He couldn’t as long as he hadn’t got Sherlock home. Lestrade could see the tears running freely over the detective’s face and this fact alone would have alarmed anyone that had known Sherlock for at least five minutes. Lestrade watched in horror as Sherlock stroked through John’s bloody hair, again and again, his hands shivering in despair.

Sherlock startled at Lestrade’s gentle touch on his shoulder. Did he really not hear the siren of the ambulance? Despite there being no hope at all with the damage John’s body had suffered they still took him away from Sherlock. Logically he knew that he wasn’t allowed to keep a corpse from a crime scene. Nonetheless he couldn’t bring himself to stop struggling against Lestrade’s arms holding him back. They couldn’t possibly take HIS John away from him!

He doesn’t remember the way home that well. Lestrade probably brought him back to Bakerstreet. Mrs. Hudson was there, tears on her face. She was still able to fuss about the apathetic detective. The situation just didn’t make any sense to Sherlock. Everything was so damn normal. John’s things were still cluttered all over the place, mixing with Sherlock’s. Bakerstreet looked just like always apart from the crying landlady in their kitchen trying to prepare tea with her shivering hands. John was probably just at the surgery. Or at Tesco’s. Or on one of his hideous dates. He’d come back soon, right?

And that was the problem. He understood it and at the same time it didn’t make any sense at all. John wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t THEIR flat anymore despite John’s things being distributed all over the place. It was his flat now, he lived here all alone and it was the most horrible thing that ever happened to him. This includes the time he overdosed on cocaine and woke up in hospital with his brother at his bedside declaring he was spending the next few months in a detoxification clinic. This included the time Mary shot him and he thought that if he wasn’t going to die from the bullet wound he would die from pain instead. This includes the time he had to leave John for two years. This includes the time John decided that this bloody woman was a better companion than he was.

The first two weeks he did nothing at all.

He just barely survived because of Mrs. Hudson practically begging him to eat or drink from time to time. Lestrade stopped by. He tried to lure Sherlock out with cases. Once the older man realised that this wouldn’t work, he tried to create the most interesting case story he could imagine – no reaction. He finally gave up because it got dark outside and he had to work the next day.

Molly visited. She brought him biscuits. And toenails. Even the occasional eyeball was there. She tried talking to Sherlock about her work, the few cases she solved with him right after John’s marriage; she even tried the usual small talk. She also went home defeated.

Once Mycroft stopped by it was clear to everyone else that it was even worse than they already thought it was. And as the elder Holmes brother leaves the flat Sherlock still lies on the sofa in 221b Bakerstreet, not having moved an inch.

After two weeks Mrs. Hudson, who was downstairs in her own flat, preparing dinner for herself and Sherlock heard a thump from above. Had Sherlock finally moved? The question was answered moments later when the consulting detective came stomping down the stairs, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. “Sherlock?! Where are you –“, Mrs. Hudson tried to inquire but without hope.

A day later Lestrade finally found out from Mycroft that the mad detective was now recreating every single scene how John could have faked his death. He doubted John would do such a thing, and it was definitely a lot harder with a bullet wound in the head and Sherlock watching, but it could have been possible. Sherlock would have been able to pull that stunt off, so maybe John did, too? There weren’t any valid reasons for such a course of action Sherlock could think of, but who knows? John had always been able to surprise the detective.

After two more weeks of experiments hours for hours spent in his mind palace he had to admit that it was very improbable that John by some kind of means survived the whole affair. He even convinced himself to visit the morgue. It was a long time ago he threw up without going through withdrawal.

He supposed he should have seen that one coming, but somehow his mind didn’t work that good anymore since John wasn’t there anymore. Especially when it came to sentiment – more so his own.

After that came the drugs.

He finally understood what John went through in the two years of his absence. Damn he would punch John in the face if he told him right now that he was alive all along and hid it from him.

Right after he would hug him and never ever let him go again.

He never took enough cocaine to actually endanger himself. He deliberately made John go through this hell and he deserved all the pain he got. He took just enough to make it a liitle more bearable, because otherwise he wouldn’t make it another day without John.

The next months of excessive substance abuse were only disrupted by some phases of excessive experimenting that more and more often resolved in Sherlock accidentally blowing up the flat.

He never even as much as looked at a case file in all the time.

Of course Lestrade tried to involve him in cases again. First only for Sherlock’s benefit – he had the hope that the consulting detective would become a little more himself when he was solving crimes again. Later he simply needed help. Sherlock always refused.

Case solving was a John Activity. As well as having Chinese takeout or watching bad telly were John Activities.

He never did any John Activities anymore.

 

xxx

 

Two years. He made John endure this hell for two years. Today John has made him live this life for exactly the same amount of time. The day seems to go on forever. John’s old gun is lying next to him on the arm rest of his chair. He still refers to the other chair as “John’s”. Funny, isn’t it?

On this exact day he had made his entrance at the fancy restaurant John had chosen for proposing to Mary. On this exact day John isn’t going to open the door of 221b Bakerstreet.

Sherlock wears his best suit, sitting still in his chair, just watching the room, absently stroking the cool metal of John’s gun. It gets dark. And darker.

John hasn’t come.


End file.
